Wanda pursed her lips and turned around again. Be patient with him, she told herself sternly, he’s an old man on his deathbed.
“Ruth!” A secretive smile spread across Wilhelm’s face.
Wanda didn’t bother to repeat that she wasn’t Ruth. She approached reluctantly as he beckoned her toward the bed.
On closer inspection the old fellow didn’t look quite so deathly ill after all. For a moment she even thought she could see the stubborn lines of earlier days in his face; in the jutting chin and sharp cheekbones, she could see the fearsome old bully everyone had told her about. To her own amazement she even felt something like relief.
“Ruth’s daughter, now who would have thought! Your mother . . .” He sat up straight. “Shall I tell you something about your mother?”
Wanda nodded—and was immediately angry at herself.
The old man’s eyes lit up.
“Don’t go telling anyone else, mind!”
He began to chuckle like a bleating goat, then relapsed into another coughing fit.
Wanda waited for him to recover.
“Ruth . . . back then, she had more moxie than all three of my sons put together.” He shook his head sadly. “It was a long time ago. And nothing ever got better after that.”
Wilhelm Heimer closed his eyes.
As she took hold of the doorknob again, Wanda fought against the lump in her throat. She knew that she had just heard the old man give the greatest compliment he was capable of.
“It’s good that you came.” The whisper from the bed was faint, but loud enough to hear even as she left.
12
The meal was everything that the occasion demanded: pâté with truffles, grilled red mullet that filled half the palazzo with the scent of rosemary, squab stuffed with porcini and saffron risotto. The table in the dining room was decorated as befitted the feast. The linen tablecloths were embroidered with the family coat of arms, the best china was brought out, and the silver was polished to a high shine. A bouquet of white lilies and yellow roses stood in the middle of the table, with two more at each end of the long main window. Despite the magnificence of the blooms, however, the overall effect was sterile, an impression that was only heightened by the fact that the flowers gave off no scent. Perhaps they were silk? Marie took a petal between her fingers when no one was looking: the flowers were real. She wondered if perhaps Patrizia had forbidden the flowers to spread any scent so that nothing could compete with her own strong perfume.
Marie waited impatiently for even a glimmer of holiday spirit. How long did she have to sit in this high-ceilinged room where every word echoed back from the walls, looking at the sour expression on her mother-in-law’s face, while Franco and his father talked on and on about some winegrower and his sons? Marie tried to catch Franco’s eye, but he was so absorbed in conversation that he didn’t notice.
By the time the third course was served, Marie was full, but she began working her way through everything on the plate because it was unladylike enough to annoy Patrizia. And indeed the countess raised her eyebrows disapprovingly as she cut her own serving of pigeon breast into tiny little bites. A moment later she put her cutlery down.
“It will be eleven o’clock soon. I will go and make sure that Carla has cooled the champagne.” Patrizia dabbed delicately at an imaginary drop of wine on her lips and then moved her chair back silently and stood up.
She was hardly out of the room before Marie surreptitiously unbuttoned the waistband of her skirt. She was sorry now that she had eaten so much.
For Franco’s sake she wasn’t wearing pants while she was pregnant. “It doesn’t do the bambino any good to be buttoned up so tight,” he had argued. Marie was fairly sure, though, that he was more worried about Patrizia’s old-fashioned views. The countess had already declared that she was deeply shocked Marie did not wear a corset. Well, her dear mother-in-law would have to get used to the idea that Marie was not going to tie herself into a prickly wire cage, not even after she had given birth!
Marie tugged at Franco’s sleeve. “Why don’t we skip dessert and go for a walk?”
“A walk? It’ll be time to go out onto the terrace soon,” Franco said. “You’ve been looking forward to the fireworks for days, haven’t you?”
He winked at her, and Marie felt a flush of resentment. Why was he treating her like a child just because she had never seen a fireworks display? Suddenly, she wasn’t looking forward quite as much to the show.
“We can watch the fireworks from down in the harbor, can’t we? Can’t you hear how lively the crowds are out in the street?” She pointed toward the window and the distant sound of shouting and laughter. Sometimes the wind carried a snatch of music into the palazzo as well. “They seem to be really enjoying the festival out there!”